


Tea & Sympathy

by wagamiller



Category: Miss Scarlet and the Duke
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24111049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: William really does mean to leave.He holds his hat in hand and drapes his coat over his arm because he really, really does mean to go.Missing scene for Episode 6.
Relationships: Eliza Scarlet/William "Duke" Wellington
Comments: 54
Kudos: 382





	Tea & Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene between Moses' departure and William arriving at Eliza's office the next day because I wanted more, damn it. 
> 
> If you're looking for historical accuracy and correct Victorian etiquette, you will be disappointed. If however you're looking for arguing, sexual tension and some self-indulgent hurt/comfort to see you through lockdown, I'm ya girl.

William really does mean to leave.

He holds his hat in hand and drapes his coat over his arm because he really, really does mean to go.

Just as soon as he’s sure that Moses is gone, that is.

Eliza’s unlikely ally departs infuriatingly slowly, sauntering down the dark street as though he’s enjoying the knowledge that his every step is being watched. William grinds his teeth and keeps watching, resisting the rising urge to find out whether a swift kick up the backside would hurry the damned man along. 

When it starts to rain Moses finally appears to tire of his little game and quickens his pace until at last his shadowed silhouette disappears into the gloom at the end of the street. 

There’s no reason left to linger, at least no remotely sensible reason, and since William is an eminently sensible man he can’t account for why he stops at the steps that lead from Eliza’s door to the pavement. In this weather he should be taking them two at a time, diving for the shelter of the carriage that’s waiting with it’s horses pawing restlessly on the cobbles.

“Back to Scotland Yard, sir?” his driver calls out.

The rain comes down heavier by the second, soaking into his hair and the shoulders of his jacket, and still he hesitates.

It rained right after Henry’s funeral.

“Or straight home?”

A sudden downpour, just like this.

He walked back to Scotland Yard that day in a daze, dwelling on Eliza’s pale face and shaking hands, barely feeling the rain until he was drenched right through every layer of his mourning clothes. Frank took one look at the sorry state of him and immediately reached for the whisky, adding a generous slug to the mug of tea he handed over.

The drinks they shared tonight turn sour in William’s stomach, leaving him gripping his hat so tightly that the rigid rim starts to give.

“Inspect Wellington, sir?” the coachman calls out again.

“Yes? What is it?” William snaps, so sharply that the young man at the reins visibly wilts. He should probably feel guilty about that, he realises. Doesn’t. But should.

“Sorry, sir. It’s just ... where to, sir?”

“Nowhere,” Williams says, unaware of the answer until it’s already left his lips. He waves his hand in dismissal. “Go back to the station, lad, you’re relieved. I need–”

The driver doesn’t need to be told twice, he doesn’t even wait to hear how William was going to end that sentence before he urges the horses to pull away. It’s a shame really, William thinks as he works his hat back into shape with his good hand, because he has no idea what he was going to say he needed.

The answer is not – cannot – be the woman inside the house behind him. 

He glances back at her door, choosing not to read anything into the fact that he has left it wide open behind him. His deductions aren’t to be trusted anyway, not when he’s been oblivious to the damn murderer right under his nose for months.

His new pocket watch tells him it’s already several hours beyond appropriate but it’s raining and he is cold and for reasons unknown and absolutely not tied to Eliza he has just dismissed a dry and comfortable means of getting home.

Appropriate or not, he heads back inside.

“William?” Eliza’s voice drifts up towards him as he closes the door and returns his hat and coat to the hall-stand. “Is that you?”

He knows it’s childish and a little unbecoming to be happy that she would immediately assume it’s him and not Moses. Still, his lips lift all the same. 

“Yes, Eliza,” he calls back, his smile faltering as he passes a mirror and catches sight of his tired face, the scratches from the fight at the prison standing out on his cheek. “Only me.”

Unease settles in his stomach when he reaches her drawing room and remembers he has no reason to give for being back, no explanation for why he’s just gone and stood out in the rain and then tracked wet footprints all over her clean floorboards. He hesitates in the doorway, letting the warmth of the distant fireplace wash over him until coming back starts to seem like it was a good idea after all. If that warmth seems to burn a little brighter in his chest when Eliza appears in front of him, that’s just something else about tonight that he chooses not to examine too closely.

“Ah, it is you.” She peers up at him, her brows immediately drawing in. “What is it – what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just–”

“William?”

His name on her lips like this – half question, half worry – makes every available excuse fly out of his head.

“I did not want to go home.” He admits it in a rush, tipping his eyes up to the ceiling so he doesn’t have to see what might flash in her eyes at his weakness. He clears his throat but it doesn’t remove the thickness there. “Not yet, at any rate.”

There’s a moment of silence that feels endless until Eliza says, quite calmly, “Very well, then please stay as long as you wish.”

William drops his gaze back to her face and finds nothing close to pity there. She’s smiling slightly at him, her eyes curious but not at all unkind and for a moment – only a moment – he thinks he might love this woman.

Then as usual she says something to ruin it. 

“But where is Moses? If you did not take him home, did you at least pay for a cab?”

“No, I did not,” he grits out, ignoring the stab of pain as he leans his bandaged hand on the doorframe. “And before you say anything, he was quite clear that he did not want any assistance from me.”

“I cannot think why,” she says, her smile turning wicked. “When you’re such good friends now.”

“Friends?”

“Yes,” she says, growing even more cheerful in the face of his disgust. Ridiculous, ridiculous girl. “Friends.”

“Eliza, the day I find myself friends with a criminal is–” he falters, suddenly realising the lie of it. “Is today, I suppose.” He lets out a heavy breath through his nose. “Lord.”

“Ah.” Eliza’s face falls and he feels the loss of her smile like a punch to the gut. “We are not talking about Moses anymore, are we?”

“No.” The chill from his damp clothes seems to seep into his bones and suddenly the warmth of the distant fire can’t touch it. “No, we are not.”

“William, I–” Eliza reaches out a hand to him, jerking back as soon as she touches his wet jacket. “Oh – William, you’re drenched.”

“It’s raining,” he says dumbly, telling himself that the feeling that struck when she released his arm was not disappointment.

“You don’t say,” she mutters, studying every inch of him now, no doubt cataloguing his utterly dismal state. 

The scrutiny should probably make him self-conscious but he finds he rather likes her eyes on him like this, the way concern is softening her usually sharp gaze. 

“What did you do?” she says, dusting her hand down his arm to brush at some of the standing water. “Stand in the rain until you were sure Moses wasn’t about to sneak back to rob me?”

“Something like that.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, taking hold of a fistful of the sleeve at his wrist. The late hour and his exhaustion are the only reasons he allows her to manhandle him towards her sofa. “Have I ever told you that?”

“Once or twice.”

“Sit there until you dry off,” she instructs, pushing him towards the end nearest the fire. “Or you’ll catch your death.”

William collapses onto the warmed cushions, forgetting his bad hand until it lands awkwardly beneath him.

“Careful,” Eliza admonishes when he hisses in pain. She drops down gracefully beside him, reaching for his wrist and tutting at what she finds. “The dressing is soaked through as well. I’ll have to re-wrap it–”

“It’s fine, Eliza.” He wonders if she hears how his breath hitches when she turns his wrist over ever so gently, her fingers brushing across his palm. 

“Nonsense,” she says briskly, “you can’t leave it like this. It’ll be growing things by morning.”

“What have I said about you exaggerating?”

She flashes him a smile. “That you enjoy it immensely?”

He huffs half a laugh that dies in his throat when Eliza twists sideways and starts to help him push his wet jacket off his shoulders.

“Eliza!” Her name slips out, quite beyond his control, when one of her hands dips under his jacket.

She pauses, wide eyes meeting his, and William realises with a jolt how very close she suddenly is, leaning over him like this. She seems to be holding her breath but he is utterly incapable of that kind of control. He’s sure she must be able to feel the steep rise and fall of his chest under her hand, the thud of his suddenly frantic heart. Eliza’s fingers flex slightly, her impossibly small hand so very warm through the chilled cloth of his waistcoat. 

Then, of course, the door opens.

There is no knock to warn them.

Eliza springs away from him and William honestly isn’t sure whether to be grateful or disappointed at the interruption. He does allow himself a moment to enjoy the blush staining Eliza’s cheeks. His own face feels a little flushed too for that matter but that’s surely just the warmth of the fire. He is absolutely not blushing. Never has.

“Oh!” Ivy stutters to a halt at the sight of them, immediately retreating a step or two backwards. “Begging your pardon, Miss, Inspector, I – I thought all the visitors had gone or I would never have–”

William opens his mouth to apologise but Eliza takes over, composure restored. “Not to worry, Ivy. You see the Inspector – well, he got caught in the rain–”

“Did he indeed?”

“Y-yes …” Very well, perhaps Eliza’s composure isn’t quite restored. “It was … it was quite a downpour as you can see and now his bandages are quite ruined....”

It’s not fair for William to be enjoying this. Not fair and not at all sensible. But there’s always something desperately appealing about seeing Eliza even a little flustered, all the more when he’s the cause of it. It somehow makes her seem a little less untouchable, a little more likely to take his calloused hand once in a while. Just a lock of hair out of place has the power to set his heart racing sometimes, sending him to bed with fantasies of being the reason for it. 

As if sensing his thoughts Ivy flashes a look his way and William swallows his smile, turning his attention to the fire for a moment. That’s clearly why his cheeks warm again. No other reason.

“I’ll fetch some fresh linen,” Ivy says, her attention turning back to Eliza. “Can I get you anything else? Tea perhaps? And I think we’ve some bread or there’s a little fruitcake–”

“There’s always eggs,” William mutters under his breath, smiling as Eliza huffs at him.

“Tea and cake sounds wonderful, thank you, Ivy,” Eliza says, patting her stomach in anticipation. “I did not feel much like eating earlier.”

Neither had William. It was Frank who brought him a pie, cajoling him into eating it with the promise of buying the first round. William breathes in sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. It does nothing to stop the memories that suddenly seem to crowd back in, leaving his head aching.

“Better put a dash of something stronger in the Inspector’s tea, please, Ivy.”

“Not whisky,” he says, sharper than he intends. “Anything but that.”

“William!” He can feel Eliza’s eyes on him but can’t bear to meet them.

“I apologise,” he says, holding up a hand to Ivy. “I did not mean to–”

“It’s been a long day for you both, Inspector,” Ivy says, kinder than he deserves. “And I’ve had sharper words from Miss Scarlet when I have to wake her earlier than she’d like.”

He smiles at that though it doesn’t really lift his spirits. “Thank you, Ivy, really.”

William shrugs out of his jacket as soon as Ivy departs, still ignoring the heat of Eliza’s stare. He gets up to lay it out across the fireguard to dry, glad of the excuse to move away from her. If she touches him again right now he’s really not sure what he’ll do but he’s certain it would embarrass them both.

“William.” Eliza sounds his name cautiously, clearly reading the change in his mood even if she doesn’t understand it.

He risks a glance at her face and feels, if possible, even worse. She doesn’t seem angry though God knows she’d have every right. He has trespassed on her hospitality, snapped at her maid and now he’s pacing a hole into her carpet yet all she does is patiently pat the empty space beside her. “Please come and sit back down.”

The kindness is too much to bear. “I–” He’d give anything to loosen his collar right now, if he could take the whole damn thing off maybe he’d be able to breathe again. He settles for undoing the tight buckle of the holster from around his shoulders instead, removing his pistol and carefully placing it and the whole contraption on a side table. 

Just as he is contemplating changing the subject to something inconsequential, any silly little thing they could argue about, Eliza stands up. Her approach is careful, as though she thinks any sudden moves might send him bolting. She’s probably right.

“You’re upset,” she says simply, planting herself right in the path of his renewed pacing so he’s forced to come to a stop.

“No,” he lies. “I’m angry.”

“Very well, you’re angry,” she amends, lips pulling into a smile at his stubbornness. “Sit down and tell me why.”

When she takes his hand, all the fight goes out of him.

Or perhaps it’s only cowardice that leaves him because it feels a lot like courage to look into her eyes and say, “I thought I knew him, Eliza.” She squeezes his hand in hers, ever so slightly. “I thought I knew the man.”

Eliza pulls him back towards the sofa and he goes willingly, sitting down right at the edge as though he might need to spring up and away from her again. 

“I worked with him,” he says, releasing her hand to drag his own across his face. “I drank with him. Christ, I left him in rooms alone with you.”

“You were not to know.”

“No,” he says, almost growling his disagreement, “I _should_ have known.”

“It seems to me,” she says, every bit as calm as he is angry, “that he was talented at forging more than just money, William. There was no reason to suspect him, nobody–”

“Eliza,” he cuts across her excuses, “can you ever forgive me?”

Oh. There it is. The question that’s been haunting him all evening without ever quite making itself known and now that it’s out in the air between them he wishes he could snatch the words back. He can’t even look at her, can’t bear to see the true answer in her eyes before she speaks a kind lie that will break his heart.

But then, as always, Eliza finds a way to surprise him.

She laughs at him.

It’s an incredulous sound, honest and sweet, and he’s so shocked by it that he forgets to be afraid to look at her. When he meets her eyes she only smiles at him, shaking her head with a fondness that makes his chest ache.

“Oh, William, there is nothing to forgive,” she says, holding up a hand as though she knows he’s about to interrupt. Which of course, he is. “No, no, this is one thing I refuse to argue with you about. I am not angry with you and I do not blame you.”

“I would understand if–”

“What did I say about not arguing? I mean it, William, really. Have I ever lied to you?”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, or maybe because of it, he can’t help the laugh escapes him.

“Oh, very well,” she amends hastily, “have I ever lied to you about something that mattered?”

He inclines his head. “No, never.”

“Good.” She smiles again and some of the tension in his shoulders bleeds away. “Then we’ll say no more about it.”

Ivy arrives then, carrying a tray piled with cake, tea and bandages just as the clock chimes half past a terribly improper hour on Eliza’s mantelpiece. As he accepts his tea, which Ivy assures him is more brandy than anything else, William can’t help but reflect on the bizarre turn his life has taken since Henry died. It’s an undeniably odd life he’s leading these days but when Eliza’s eyes light up at the simple sight of a piece of cake at this hour of the night he can’t bring himself to regret it.

“Now eat your cake,” Eliza instructs him, when Ivy has left them alone again. “We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating?”

“A few hours ago I thought my father’s killer might never be found and now I know he will face justice. Not to mention a horrific headache.” She grins impishly and for a second she looks like the mischievous girl he knew when he was a boy. “I know it was Moses but it rather feels like I hit him over the head myself.”

William shifts uncomfortably at the memory. “About that–”

“Oh do not start, William, we have just agreed we are celebrating–”

“You don’t know what I’m going to say,” he points out.

“No, but I am sure it is not a compliment.”

“I was merely going to point out,” he says, picking his words carefully, “that while I am grateful for your ... timely arrival this evening, I remain somewhat ... _displeased_ with your plan of throwing yourself into the path of a murderer without any means to defend yourself.”

“Well then,” she says primly, “you had better help me procure a weapon for next time.”

“Next time?!” He barks a laugh without an ounce of humour in it. “There will not be a next time, Eliza.”

“William, I refuse to apologise for saving your life!” She gestures so wildly with her teacup that it spills a drop on her skirts and the whole argument is suddenly so absurd that he laughs, really laughs this time, until she starts to smile along with him. 

“I know it was not the best plan in the world,” she admits, “but that man had already robbed me of my father, I was not about to let him take someone else that I – care about.”

When he eventually lays his head down to sleep tonight it’s that tiniest of pauses that will keep him awake. The hesitation, that slight roll of her tongue, the start of a word she didn’t say.

“I know none of this will bring my father back,” Eliza goes on, quieter now, “but I will sleep sounder in my bed tonight than I have in months, knowing that his killer will not cause another family the pain he caused me.”

“To Henry,” William says quietly, raising his teacup in a toast.

Eliza lifts her cup in reply and when the candlelight catches the unshed tears in her eyes William feels like the most selfish man in London. 

“I should not have burdened you tonight, Eliza,” he begins, shifting awkwardly, “not when–”

“The existence of your grief does not diminish mine,” she says, brushing discreetly at her cheek. “Besides, what kind of partners would we be if we could not share our burdens?”

“Partners?” It’s dangerous, the thrill that shoots through him at that simple word. It’s late and his chest is warmed through by brandy and the light in her eyes but he knows it would not be a good idea to pull on that thread.

“You’re continuing then?” he says, picking the safer course of provoking her into an argument. “The business, I mean?”

“Of course I am,” she says, reliably taking the bait. “Whatever you may think, I have no intention of giving it up.”

“I did not say–”

“You did not have to.” She’s so offended, her plate of cake suddenly discarded on the side so she can fold her arms in protest. “I enjoy my work and I am rather good at it, thank you very much.”

He can’t believe he ever thought this was the more sensible option. Sometimes the idea of kissing her is all the more appealing when her eyes are sparkling like this, her chest rising sharply with the passion of her convictions.

“Now that I will not dispute,” he says, holding up a placating hand to diffuse things. He knocks back the last of his tea, wincing as the alcohol burns in his throat. 

“Besides,” Eliza goes on, deflating from her self-righteous anger slightly, “I have to make ends meet somehow. I refuse to give up this house but there’s barely any silver left to sell.”

“I did not realise money was so tight.”

“It’s better now I have Moses to frighten my debtors.”

“So that’s why you keep him around.”

“Not just for that,” she says, retrieving her cake and finishing it with a bite far too large to be ladylike. “But it certainly helps. I even had enough kept by to order a new dress last week.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s what you aspire to? A new dress.”

“Says the man who nearly cried when I ripped his dress jacket. Yes, a new dress. I’ve been wearing the same two for months now, not that I expect you to have noticed.”

“I have actually,” he corrects her. “You think I’m more susceptible to the red one. You wear it when you want something.”

“It’s burgundy actually.” She turns away to put her empty plate and teacup down so he can’t see her face when she says, “and it works.”

“That’s what you think,” he says tiredly, discarding his own plate and leaning back heavily into the cushions with a groan. “It’s not the dress I’m susceptible to.”

Eliza turns to stare at him, tired eyes suddenly alive, and his confession begins to seem both a very good and very bad idea. He’d like to reach out and place his thumb against that full lower lip of hers, to tug it free where she’s worrying it with her teeth. Instead he breathes out heavily, tipping his head back and closing his eyes to give her a way out if she’d like one, a chance to laugh and make a joke as they usually do.

It’s a surprise then, when her hand lands in his hair. 

“Is your hair dry now?” she says quietly. It’s either an explanation or an excuse but William doesn’t care which, only cares that she doesn’t stop. 

The slight weight of her hand moves slowly but methodically back and forth, sweeping his damp hair back off his forehead. He opens his eyes and drops his head to the side to look at her, lulled half to sleep by her touch. Eliza watches him thoughtfully, her touch growing more confident as his eyes slip closed again. When she drags her nails a little across his scalp the ragged sigh she draws from him is not something a lady should hear. Eliza’s fingers falter slightly, the only tell that she felt the shudder running through him, but then she moves her hand in the same way again and it takes everything in him not to grab her wrist and pull it down to press a kiss to the pulse point there.

“Well?” he says after a moment because if she does not stop this soon he will not be able to stop himself. He cracks one eye open. “What’s the verdict?”

“Dry enough,” she says, pausing with her hand at his hairline. It’s a relief to hear the waiver in her voice, to know she’s as affected as he is. “And in desperate need of a comb.”

A laugh rumbles through his chest, stuttering into a sigh as she traces her fingertips slowly down his temple until her palm is against his cheek. 

“Now,” she says softly, giving his cheek a pat before withdrawing her hand. “Let’s see about that wrist, shall we?”

Christ, he forgot about that. He sits up, shifting slightly and wondering if he can survive her hands on him any longer.

“Really, there’s no need – it’s not that bad and it’s almost dry now.” He looks down at the strapping, fully aware that he’s lying. Not only is it still damp and cold but the blasted thing is unravelling at several points, pulled threads telling the story of his last few days.

“It will feel better if I bind up properly, I promise,” Eliza says, all business now as she rolls the fresh bandages in her hands. “Now give me your hand.”

“Wait, wait, are you sure about this?” he asks, hiding his true hesitation behind another reason. The scissors in her hand seem like a good excuse.

She doesn’t answer him, merely rolls her eyes and reaches to move his wrist closer.

William swallows hard, hoping she puts that down to the blade of the scissors being so close to his wrist as she cuts away at the old bindings. They pull away quickly and he has to admit they do look rather grim next to the pristine white of the bandages in her lap. 

Eliza unwinds the last layer of the old cloth, revealing the mottled web of blue and black bruises across his wrist and palm. William hisses, more at the sight than the feeling of it.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, mistaking the sound for something she caused. She cups her hand quickly under the back of his, her palm warm against his chilled skin. “That looks painful.”

“I told you it was,” he says, attempting to flex his fingers and immediately thinking better of it when pain shoots up his wrist.

“Try and stay still,” she says sharply, concentrating hard as she winds the first layer of the fresh bandage across his palm from thumb to wrist. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” He hopes the question will distract her from the fact that his hand is trembling. Perhaps she’ll put it down to the pain.

“Of course,” she says, not looking up from her work. “Father made sure I knew basic first aid.”

“But not cookery.”

“And look how useful it’s proving,” she says, ignoring his jibe. “Almost finished.”

He gives up on watching Eliza wind the bandages, preferring instead to watch her face as she works. She catches her tongue between her teeth when she concentrates and there’s something so achingly sweet about that unconscious little gesture, about the knowledge that she is comfortable enough in his company to allow him to see it.

“There,” she says, tying off and tucking the ends away. “How does that feel?”

“Better.” He rolls his wrist experimentally, lips lifting when the expected pain doesn’t appear. “Much better actually.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Nothing about you surprises me anymore,” he says. He means it as a joke but can’t disguise the warmth that softens his words. “Thank you, Eliza.”

“You are entirely welcome.” 

She holds his gaze just a little longer than she should but not as long as he’d like. Then the clock on her mantel chimes the quarter hour and that one little bell seems to puncture the atmosphere somehow. The fire is still smouldering in the grate but it may as well be smoking out and suddenly all the reasons why he should not be here come rushing back to William at once.

He pulls his eyes from hers, scratching a hand over his beard. “It’s beyond time I was going, I think.” 

“Oh.” He tells himself he’s imagining the strain of reluctance in her voice. “Of course–”

“Thank you–” He clears his throat, standing and trying to not groan at the ache in his bones. “For – for this evening.”

“Any time,” Eliza says, jumping up beside him and hovering awkwardly as he re-holsters his gun across his chest. “Jacket dried off?”

“And warmed right through,” he says, slipping his bad wrist in first.

Her hands are raised when he turns around, as though she thought about helping him into his jacket before thinking better of it. 

“I’ll – I’ll see you out then,” she says, reaching for a covered candle and leading the way without looking back at him.

The lone candles in Eliza’s hall have all but burnt out, casting steep shadows as they make their way up the small flight of stairs towards her front door. The flame in Eliza’s hand is just enough to light their faces as she comes to a stop and settles it on her hall-stand.

There’s a strange look in her eyes as he moves to take his hat from behind her, one he doesn’t recognise. It could almost be longing but he tells himself it’s just the shadows and his tired mind playing tricks until, instead of stepping aside, Eliza suddenly steps in closer to him. He freezes in place, barely breathing as she takes another step closer until there’s barely any space between them at all. If it were not for the dull throbbing in his injured hand or the slightly uncomfortable pull of his still damp clothes, he could mistake this for a dream. 

“Eliza,” he breathes her name as she reaches up onto her toes, those big hopeful eyes of hers never leaving his. She’s a breath away from pressing her lips to his when he says, “Don’t.”

She pulls back like he’s struck her and something cracks open in his chest. Hurt and humiliation flash across her face and God, he is a fool, a damned fool who did not think before he spoke.

“Eliza, wait–” She tries to move away, even to look away, but he winds his bandaged arm around her waist and pulls her tightly to him. She gasps but does not struggle out of his hold and he takes what encouragement he can from that.

“Please do not mistake me,” he breathes, ducking his head to press his forehead to hers for a moment. “I would very much like you to kiss me.”

“I don’t understand.” It tears at him, the pain in her voice, the confusion he’s caused.

“I would like you to kiss me,” he repeats, pulling back to watch how his words land, seeing the truth of them settle over her. “In fact at any other time I think I would like nothing more.”

“But then–” That odd look is back in her eyes now and he considers just how much he will regret his restraint when he walks away with only the memory of her waist under his hands. 

“Eliza, this has been the strangest of days,” he says, half a laugh in his words at the understatement. “And I do not want to always wonder if you only kissed me because you were tired, or because it was late, or because I was sad.”

“Oh.” Eliza looks up at him with thoughtful eyes and then, quite suddenly, her lips lift into a smile. It’s so unexpected, so disarming, that he almost releases his hold on her. 

“William?” If he’s not being tricked by the dim light there’s a challenge brewing in her eyes. “May I offer a counter-argument?”

“A – a counter-argument?” He wonders if he’s holding her close enough that she feels how his heartbeat quickens. “By all means.”

“It’s just that it doesn’t seem fair,” she says, hand toying with a button on his waistcoat, “when I have had to spend countless years wondering if you only kissed me all those years ago because I was upset.”

“Ah.” He breathes out a shaky laugh. “That.”

“Yes … that.”

“Well, you _were_ upset,” William says, flexing the fingers that are holding round her waist. “But that is not why I kissed you.” He breathes out a sigh, heavy with years of denial. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”

“Well then, as this is no different,” she says as she slowly lifts onto her toes again, impossibly close and still not close enough, “I rest my case.”

His heart is beating out of his chest, every inch of him aching to kiss her, but he doesn’t rush. Instead he tucks his fist under Eliza’s chin and tilts it up slowly, giving her that one last chance to pull away and blame the brandy. But Eliza only smiles, the familiar spark of a dare in her eyes. She’s still smiling when he finally, finally kisses her. He can feel it in the press of her lips to his and it’s like winning the longest and best argument he’s ever had. 

After a moment she pulls back and he thinks that it’s over. It would have been enough – God, more than enough – but then she surges up to kiss him again, her hand coasting past his cheek and straying to his hair. She flexes her fingers like she did earlier, at the base of his scalp this time, and a groan rumbles in his throat, trembling through from his chest to hers where they are pressed together. He tugs her even closer, winding both arms around her waist and drawing something like a whimper out of her. As his thoughts fly off into nonsense, he thinks vaguely that he could live off the memory of that sound.

When they pull apart for a second time he lets her go carefully, slowly setting her back down onto her feet. William tugs at his waistcoat just for something to do with his hands, busying himself with straightening it so he doesn’t reach for her again. Eliza looks a little out of sorts herself, which really shouldn’t please him as much as it does. She coasts a hand over her hair and he’s disappointed in himself to realise it’s still mostly in order. Another time, perhaps. The possibility makes his stomach drop pleasantly.

Eliza laughs a little self-consciously, eyes darting away from his, and that won’t do at all. He takes her hand in his unbandaged one, giving it a squeeze, and then she’s smiling up at him again, all swollen lips and not a bit sorry.

“Are you suitably comforted?” she says, surprising a bark of laughter from him.

“I am,” he agrees, for once not wanting to argue with her.He smiles down at her, letting his eyes linger on her lips for longer than is sensible. If he doesn’t leave now, he may never do it. “Though I cannot promise I will not have a relapse.”

“Well if you need me,” she says, reaching behind her for his hat and handing it over, “you know where I live.”

“And where you work,” he can’t help but add, letting the implication hang there for a moment as he pulls on his coat.

Eliza narrows her eyes, pulling open the door. “You would not dare.” 

He leans down as he moves towards the doorway, whispering, “Oh, but I would.”

Her displeasure is so delightfully predictable. “You would kiss me in my father’s old office?”

“Eliza, my darling, I would kiss you in _my_ office,” he says, the endearment rolling off his tongue without conscious thought, “with half of Scotland Yard on the other side of the door, if it would stop you arguing back at me about something or nothing.”

With that, he brushes a kiss against her cheek and darts out the door before she can reply.

“I really dislike you sometimes,” she whisper-shouts after him as he springs down her steps.

“No, you don’t,” he calls back, raising a hand in farewell.

The sound of her front door slamming shatters the quiet of her dark street and he laughs to himself as he heads out into the night. 


End file.
